


I don't need a lot (less than I thought)

by annabeth_writes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mild Language, Past Abuse, Scars, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24467197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: It isn't Littlefinger that whisks Sansa away in the wake of Joffrey's death, but rather a family interested only in seeing her alive and well. Years later, a legitimized Jon chases whispers and rumors to her sanctuary.prompt: canonverse but jon and sansa reunite in a different way
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 156





	I don't need a lot (less than I thought)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of my "Sansa goes to Dorne after Joffrey dies and Jon finds her there" fic. I hope that it will be much better! The chapter count is currently at 7 but that can always change depending on where the story decides to take me.
> 
> Fic Title: All I Ever Want is You - Megan Davies

Having spent his share of time in King's Landing and the Reach, Jon thought that he knew heat. Yet he was not prepared for the southernmost kingdom or its blazing sun in the slightest. Upon his arrival in Sunspear after a too-long journey upon a boat, the Martells clothed him in rich, peculiar fabrics and sweeping cloaks to prevent the sun from scorching his skin before sending him off into the Dornish desert with an impressive escort. For he had come to Dorne with one goal in mind and would not be dissuaded. To his luck, the Martells would not give him any less than their warmest hospitality, since he was a good as kin to the ruling family of Dorne.

Daenerys had taken Quentyn Martell as her king, restoring the Targaryen-Martell alliance in an attempt to heal old wounds. It was not his aunt, however, that brought him to Dorne. At first, Jon thought that he might be chasing a ghost. Rumors and whispers reached King's Landing, of a young woman with flame-bright hair and sun-kissed skin that lived amidst sun and sand. Sansa Stark had disappeared after Joffrey's death, leaving behind countless stories and suspicions, each more outlandish than the last, in her wake. He couldn't resist chasing after the likeliest speculation, traveling south with nothing but the clothes on his back and Longclaw at his belt. Neither Ghost nor Rhaegal proved happy to be left behind but Jon knew that his direwolf would be miserable in the heat, even more so than Jon himself, and that the Dornish would not take well to dragons in their lands no matter who Daenerys married. 

Once her recovered from his journey at sea, Jon barely managed to reacquaint himself with Princess Arianne and ask after Sansa before she insisted that he see the well-known Water Gardens without answering a single one of his questions. She whisked him across the desert with a smile upon her face, doing nothing to improve his mood. Jon wanted three simple things: a bath, a bed, and a solid answer on his cousin's whereabouts. Even now, after all that had happened, it was odd thinking of her that way. Though Sansa was not at all close to him as they grew up, changing his mindset in the wake of learning about his true mother and father was not easy. Two wars, one for the realm and one for all of humanity, had given him ample time to accept the truth. So much so that Jon, albeit reluctantly, allowed Daenerys to legitimize him as her heir.

Now that he was on the brink of seeing another Stark for the first time in years, he felt those old insecurities all over again. Was she even alive, or did he truly chase a ghost? Would she accept him if he did find her, or spurn him as her mother once did? Would any traces of love or connection she might feel disappear upon finding out who he truly was? Would they even recognize one another after all this time? At three and twenty years, Jon could easily do the math and did not quite know how he felt about reuniting with such a grown version of his cousin when last he saw her, she had a mere eleven namedays and the face of a child. In truth, he had little idea of what to expect when it came to Sansa.

As the simple yet beautiful palace rose into view, taking shape as they drew closer, Jon prayed that Sansa would be there, That the last few years of her life were spent exactly where she should be, instead of dead or suffering beneath the cruel thumb of those who would use her for her blood. It was exactly the sort of place she dreamed of visiting as a girl, Jon knew that much. He heard rumors of the Water Gardens, that they served as a gathering place for the youth of Dorne. To his eyes, it was a paradise. Sunspear stood far more impressively with all of its spires and decor, but the simple peace that seemed to exude from the Water Gardens reached to a part of him that he did not know still existed. A piece of his soul that longed for something good.

“My father retired here years ago,” Arianne said, distracting him from his thoughts as she cantered up until her steed rode alongside his. “Children from all over Dorne, noble and common alike, are fostered here. He delights in their laughter. It is a good place for him.”

Jon managed a half-smile, a memory he thought long lost to him coming to the forefront of his mind. Laughter ringing through the courtyard of Winterfell, Lord Stark gazing down at his children proudly, the corners of his eyes creasing as he smiled. The Wall and beyond was cold enough to steal even the warmest of memories, especially during the Long Night. He found himself tangled in his thoughts until they rode through the gates that were flanked by the same orange-cloaked guards he was familiar with by now. As he dismounted his horse and released his hair from the hood that covered it, Jon wished for a cool skin of water only for a maidservant to approach them with several cups balanced upon a tray.

“Lemon water,” Arianne said, handing him a cup before taking one of her own.

Jon drank of it greedily, the taste of it like nectar to his dry mouth and aching throat. As he handed the empty cup over with a slightly abashed look on his face, Arianne simply gave him an understanding smile and tilted her head towards the palace. Jon could hear the distant sounds of splashing and laughter, wondering if this was a paradise in truth.

“My uncle was a hard man,” Arianne said, gathering her diaphanous skirts in her hands as she ascended the small set of steps to the doors. “Fierce and unpredictable, my father always said. But beneath it all, his heart was good. He had a keen sense of justice, as well as duty. I think that he anticipated nothing more than vengeance for his sister’s death when he traveled to the capital for that cursed wedding.”

She paused just before the doors and Jon followed suit, listening to her words in silence. Her dark eyes seemed to see straight through his own, deep into him where his very soul resided. There was a weight to her gaze as if she took his full measure before speaking once more.

“Uncle Oberyn never expected to find a young woman in the clutches of the Lannisters, on the brink of meeting a fate much like our own Princess Elia.”

Jon swallowed hard, glancing away from her as his sword hand clenched into a fist. No one would admit to what transpired when Sansa was a hostage of the Lannisters. The courtiers that remained from that time, the ones that were wise enough to pledge loyalty to Daenerys early on, all seemed to forget they even knew of a Sansa Stark if he ever spoke her name.

“One of his last acts in this world was stealing her away from their clutches,” Arianne said, giving Jon a knowing look as his eyes darted back to her, growing wide at the implication of her words.

“Her arrival barely predicated word of his death. The Dornishmen that escorted her assured us of Oberyn’s intentions but it was a letter of his own writing, a letter that your cousin placed directly into the hands of my father, that told us everything we needed to know. In our mourning, we could do nothing less than honor his last wishes. We made the decision to shelter the last of the Starks here, where no one in the world could find her.”

Jon inhaled deeply, reaching out to brace his hand on a pillar as relief overwhelmed him. It was true. He hadn’t come for nothing, on a whisper of false hope. Dropping his head, he clenched his jaw and breathed in and out slowly, needing a moment to gather himself.

“Thank you,” he finally managed to choke out, looking up at the princess before him.

Arianne gave him the gentlest of smiles, reaching out to grasp his arm.

“Would you like to see her?”

*****

There was hardly a corridor or a room within the palace that did not open into the warm air. Jon relented to Arianne’s insistence that he wash up, changing his clothes into another borrowed set of breeches and a well-worn tunic. He didn’t mind the simplicity of the clothing, no matter how many apologies he received for it. All that he wanted to do was see Sansa. His heart raced quickly as he followed Arianne through the palace, anticipation rising within him. As they stepped out onto a terrace, the noises he heard distantly before reached his ears in full. Arianne stepped aside as he stepped towards the railing, peeking out only to see dozens of children swimming, wrestling, and plashing within a deep pool of water. Some were as young as Rickon the last time that Jon saw him and some on the brink of adulthood. Their carefree laughter and easy smiles bound them all together. It was quite the sight to his eyes.

“Prince Jon,” Arianne called out to him.

He turned, half-hoping to see Sansa standing next to her. Instead, his eyes dropped to a grey-haired man seated in a wheeled chair, a blanket draped over his lap that covered him from waist to toe. Jon knew his identity without question, lowering into a bow as he cursed himself for not noticing him before.

“This is my father, Prince Doran Nymeros Martell,” Arianne introduced, laying a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Father, this is Prince Jon Targaryen.”

The man gave him a smile, nodding his way.

“I’ve heard much about you,” he said, his voice soft yet with an unmistakable core of steel beneath it.

Just behind him, a bearded man with a long ax stood guard over the prince.

“The maester at Winterfell told us many stories of you, Prince Doran,” Jon said, recalling Maester Luwin fondly. “He said that you and your brother were both great fighters.”

“In our time, yes,” Doran said, a far off sadness in his eyes that Jon regretted bringing about by mentioning Oberyn Martell. “I much prefer tranquility and laughter these days. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Jon glanced over his shoulder, unable to keep from nodding his head in agreement.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it."

As he watched a child no more than four take a daring leap into the water, he heard Arianne speak softly in a language that he only recognized from the few lessons he overheard Quentyn giving to his aunt. Nymeria's language lived on in her descendants. Though Jon did not understand a word, he found a certain beauty in the flowing speech. Arianne's voice took on a more Rhoynish lilt as she spoke for her father’s ears only, receiving an answer in the same language.

“Forgive us,” Prince Doran said as he turned back to glance at them curiously. “Do you know Rhoynish, Prince Jon?”

Resisting the urge to request that they drop the title when addressing him, Jon shook his head.

“None at all. Apart from the common tongue, we are only taught what remains of the Old Tongue in the North.”

“Ah yes. We’ve heard a bit of it ourselves,” Doran said with a nod.

 _From Sansa_ , Jon realized, remembering once more why he was there. Looking around once more, he searched for her bright hair amidst the others.

“Come,” Arianne said, regaining his attention. “You must see the beach.”

Jon knew better than to refuse, though he felt a spark of frustration within his chest. A silent trek through gardens and across shifting sands edged him closer to an outlash of annoyance but then the wind carried the sound of much different, far more familiar laughter to his ears. Over the sounds of waves crashing up on a shore, it drifted as if a song that he had long forgotten, and his head snapped up as he stared around desperately. There, he saw a loose banner of flame-bright hair. The wind whipped it about her head as her hands lifted to sweep it away from her eyes.

She was not alone but surrounded by several more children of varying ages as they dodged and chased the tide. Her dress was made of the same fine, gauzy material as Arianne’s, in a lovely dusky purple shade and fit close to her waist with bejeweled belt yet soaked at the hem as she lifted it to show her bare, sand-covered feet. Another peal of laughter filled the air as she skipped away from the water as gracefully as she used to twirl about the Great Hall of Winterfell. The children all laughed with her, equally delighted by their little game. Jon felt as if he may well burst with the satisfaction and joy that rose within him, knowing now that she was whole and alive and well before his very eyes.

“It took many months for her to gift us with her laughter,” Arianne said quietly, her words meant for his ears alone. “In truth, we saw her brightest smile the day that we told her that you still lived.”

Jon knew the feeling well, for he experienced it now with an onslaught of emotions.

“Does she know? Who I am?” he asked, his voice strangely rough to his ears.

“We told her when the queen legitimized you. She seemed thrilled on your behalf, that you finally knew the truth of your birth.”

As he took a step forward, feeling drawn to her more and more with each second that passed, Arianne shouted out a command in that same Rhoynish language and each of the heads turned their way as Jon’s breath caught in his throat. Sansa was the last of them, brushing a lock of hair away from her smiling lips as she watched the little ones scramble their way through the sand towards their grinning princess, shouting her name all the way. Then Sansa's eyes lifted, fixing on Jon without so much as glancing Arianne’s way. Her smile faded, her lips parting in shock as her eyes grew wide.

Slowly, very slowly, she took careful steps across the sand as Arianne herded the children away. Jon held himself perfectly still, almost afraid that if he moved or blinked, she would disappear before his eyes. Finally she reached him, her hands twisting into her skirts as she took him in completely. The tears that filled her blue eyes only made them more striking and Jon felt the sudden urge to take her in his arms and never let go as a single drop slid down her freckled cheek. Yet he remained still, not wanting to startle her. When her hands lifted, very hesitantly cupping his face as if she expected him to yank himself away from her, Jon felt as if he might cry as well.

“Oh,” Sansa breathed out, as if realizing that he was not a vision.

Then a brilliant smile broke out on her face and Jon didn’t hesitate for a moment longer. She fit into his arms perfectly as he gathered her close, burying her face in his shoulder as his arms wrapped firmly around her waist. She smelled of a peculiar mix of spices, oranges, and ocean. Jon pressed his face into her hair and inhaled greedily, feeling a sense of home that he had been missing for so long as he embraced her. After several long moments, Sansa pulled away from him with a small gasp and looked into his eyes with shock in her own.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with wide, Tully blue eyes.

“I-” Jon tried to find a way to describe everything that brought him here but his words failed him. “For you. I came here for you.”

Sansa’s face softened as her lower lip trembled. Jon feared that she would begin crying in earnest but had little time to worry before she pushed up on her bare toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek that left it tingling in the wake of her lips.

“I knew it would be sweet,” she said, falling back on her heels. “Seeing you again.”

Jon felt warmth filling him from the inside out and knew now that he overestimated the effect of Dorne until this moment. For the heat could not chase away the chill that lived within him. A feeling that took root as he knelt in the snow, betrayed by his brothers and left to die in the shadow of a wall that he fought with everything he had to defend. Perhaps the North itself left its mark or the brutal reality of his death changed him deep within. Whatever it was, the cold hadn’t left him, even when breath filled his lungs once more and brought him out of the immense darkness of death. He felt wrong. A shadow of his former self, even as he fought in wars and found out the truth of himself. A dead man with a heart of ice that nothing could melt.

Nothing but the sight of Sansa alive and well, and the feeling of her in his arms, solid, warm, and very real.

"Jon," she whispered, lifting her hand to cup his cheek.

At the sound of his name upon her lips, he could not help but tilt his face into her touch.

"You look so tired," Sansa said, brushing her thumb along one of the scars that surrounded his eyes.

 _I am,_ he wanted to say, for all the warmth in her eyes made him feel like he was home even so far from the North. _I have fought for so long and I am truly tired, Sansa._

He did not speak these words aloud, not wanting to lay his burdens upon her shoulders, yet she seemed to see them in his eyes all the same.

“I nearly fainted straight away when I first came here. The heat is oppressive, is it not?”

Jon nodded, still taking her in as she spoke. Sansa pulled out of his arms much to his disappointment only to slip her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“You can rest in my chambers.”

Sansa nudged him forward before he could protest, guiding him towards the palace with her free hand lifting her skirts up to allow her to walk freely. Jon might have protested if he did not long so desperately to keep himself in her company. With each step that he took, and with each glimpse of her fire-kissed hair and gentle smile that he saw from the corner of his eye, Jon had the overwhelming thought that she could very well lead him into the deepest of the seven hells and he would gladly go so long as she was at his side.

*****

Though Sansa's chambers were as far from any they had known at Winterfell, with open windows, gauzy curtains, and odd furniture, Jon could easily see touches of the girl he once knew. Swaths of fabric laid across a chair with a basket of needle and thread set atop them. Books stacked about in shelves and upon tables with gilded titles that spoke of stories and songs that she had always loved. Trinkets scattered all over the place, carefully collected over the years. Colorful ribbons, fine hairpins, and oddly shaped bottles neatly organized upon her dressing table, as well as a silver hairbrush decorated with delicate swirls. The scent that he had smelled on her skin lingered here as well. All of it telling stories of the woman that stood before him. A woman almost unrecognizable to his eyes were it not for her familiar hair and eyes.

She was slender and tall, though not quite as tall as himself, with her mother's high cheekbones and her father's chin. Jon could not recall a time that he had seen her with no adornment or styling to her hair, even when they were small children. She fidgeted beneath his searching eyes, her hands wringing together anxiously as if she feared that he may find fault with her appearance. What Jon would not, and surely _could not_ , say was that he thought she might have been the most beautiful woman he ever laid his eyes upon. As she was his cousin and not his sister, there was no sin in thinking so. But Jon did not wish to make her feel discomfort when they were in the midst of a place where she had been safe for so long.

"If you have changed your mind then I can seek out my own chambers and perhaps we can talk at the evening meal."

Sansa's eyes grew wide as she shook her head, reaching out to grasp his hands in her own.

"No," she said, a desperate edge to his voice. "Please do not leave. It's... it's been so _long_."

She guided him to a lengthy velvet settee, tugging him down to sit with her as she held his gaze with no fear in her eyes.

"I have truly loved it here, and I will always be grateful to the Martells for all that they have done for me, but I never thought that I would see another person who could understand. They have suffered loss here, it is true, but not _our_ loss. I have told them all that I can remember about our family but they did not know them. No one did. Not like you and I."

As she spoke, Jon felt as if she had stolen the words from his own mind.

"I miss them," he whispered, thinking of Robb with the snow melting in his hair, of Arya with the sword that he gifted to her, of Bran and his easy smiles, and of wild Rickon running about the halls of Winterfell with Shaggydog at his side.

Sansa's eyes grew brighter with unshed tears just before she lowered her head and gave a soft sniffle. Jon squeezed her hands lightly, wishing that she did not feel the need to hide her tears from him.

"Oh Jon," she said with a choked sob, tipping forward into his arms.

He caught her easily, gathering her close as she gripped at his tunic and let her tears wet his shoulder. He could not remain stone-faced as she gave way to her grief, closing his eyes as tears slipped silently down his cheeks. They did not move for countless minutes, caught up in the relief of sharing such anguish and loss with someone who understood exactly how it felt. As Sansa finally drew away, wiping at her nose and cheeks in an easy manner that was not at all familiar to him, as he remembered the girl who would be mortified if anyone saw her in such a state. It was almost a relief, hearing the horrified noise that she made as her cheeks colored and she rose from the settee quickly.

"I must look terrible," Sansa said with a hoarse laugh, crossing to her dressing table on light feet.

"You could never," Jon said with confidence, the words slipping out before he could call them back.

She hesitated briefly, casting him a wide-eyed look and the slightest of smiles before dabbing at her cheeks with a square of cloth. Jon watched as she fussed with her hair, brushing the tangles out with her brush before quickly braiding it with nimble fingers. Just as she tied the plait off with a light blue ribbon, a yawn rose in his throat and stretched his mouth so wide that he winced at how his jaw cracked. Sansa must have heard it because she turned to face him with a furrow to her brow.

"You should lie down, Jon."

He opened his mouth to gently refuse her, knowing that it was not proper at all, but she looked so earnest as she fetched him a pillow from her own bed and laid it upon one end of the settee. Jon could not deny that his body ached for a good rest, now that all of his worries seemed for naught. It was all too easy for Sansa to coax him to lie down, his eyes slipping closed even as he sensed her settle upon the ground at his side. Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking through it in a gentle, soothing motion as she hummed softly. The tune was a familiar one. A Northern one. For a man who usually tossed and turned about before slipping into a fitful rest, Jon found himself submitting to sleep's gentle embrace quite easily beneath his cousin's soft touch. His last thought was one of breathless acceptance, that he had finally found someone with whom he felt that he truly belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you think!
> 
> [Sansa's Dress](https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/736338607814728662/) \- with more of a modest neckline


End file.
